


The Bell Jar

by trashtv



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Depression, Gen, M/M, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 19:58:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2163279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashtv/pseuds/trashtv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only then he would expect to maybe smile naturally. To be happy once again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bell Jar

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this on off for like idk 8 months? And, now that i have this account, I slapped on an ending and decided to submit it.
> 
> It's set around season four, probably the beginning while Brock is still absent. 
> 
> im all about the sad, to be honest.  
> it fuels my needs as a fan, so im going to apologize beforehand and slip away before any damage is done.

It’s Sunday, he’s sure of it. Or, maybe it was Monday.  
  
The constant ramblings of his Dad and a third party assured him it must be a week day even if his clothes were still stacked in piles around his room and his shoes have yet to be moved from the doorway to the closet. He knew it was pathetic of him to depend on his Dad to make sure things were done, such as cleaning and personal hygiene, but he liked to believe he was a man with pressing matters at hand. Agendas that were far too important to leave hanging like that one pair of spankies he left out during the thunderstorm last week.  
  
He shifts to the side, taking the majority of the covers with him. The sunlight peaked through the expanded blinds he had forgotten to close last night and reflected his form on the adjacent wall where Dean’s bed had been  a year or so ago. He had lost count after winter.  
  
He stretched out an arm, forcing his torso to tilt over and flop down with his back into the mattress. He was still tired and extremely groggy from last night’s little escapade dealing with Dean and his terrible peppermint scented candles of pure unimaginable terror. He had screamed and yelled at Dean until Dean retreated into the darkest corners of his little haven in the attic, putting out every single cheap candle on his way to bed. Hank could then hear little mummers of mostly curses, but Hank didn’t pay much attention to Dean’s little outbursts. He was on such a different mental state of being that Hank was convinced just then that Dean was actually just a figment of his imagination and not the other venture who whined every single second of the day.  
  
Another twist.  
Another turn.  
  
His legs tangle in between the ripples of his batman sheets, but instead of prying himself free, he stays locked with his legs intertwined. His eyes fixate over the grains of dust cascading in the sunlight not knowing what to do with himself. He’s thinking more than he’s used to and as much as he’d hate to admit it, he feels that this is the only way to keep himself grounded. He glimpses over the storm rider jacket lying limp over a chair and Brock bubbles effortlessly into his mind, like a passing memory.  
  
He tugs at the sheets around his feet and imagines Brock entering his room just then, the tips of his leather boots rapping lightly against the carpet. He keeps a solitary pace, lifting every piece of clothing off the floor with the utmost care and carefully placing his dirty sneakers in his closet along with a sole pair of jeans left handing on a nail embedded into the wall. Brock whisks out a cigarette and lights it, keeping the laundry basket balanced between his chiseled abdomen and biceps.  


Hank bites down on his bottom lip, scraping the skin with his teeth. He imagines the smoke simmering and expanding flatly overhead before escaping into the air vents. The scent was alien to him. Menthols? No, Brock wasn’t a menthol kinda guy. Cut clean tobacco. Gritty dirt taste.  Marlboro.  Maybe, Reds. That kind of thing.  


Hank wires his eyes shut and hangs his head to the side, listening to his Dad go on about toilet paper and those cute shell shaped hand soaps to be bought. He’s imagining its Brock he’s talking to; chiseled and poised for anything unsuspected, yet extremely suspected attacks on the Venture home. His eyelids flutter, picturing Brock taking systematic notes of an entire grocery check list such as of how he used to do when he and Dean were kids.  
  
Furrowing his thick eyebrows, he imagines Brock back into his room. He’s taking small, timid steps towards Hank’s bed, lowering his barrel of a body over him as if to tower him in the means of destruction. He puts one knee into the mattress and dips his fingers low into the loose fabrics of his sheets, pulling them slowly off Hank’s tight, ample body. He shudders a breath, imagining Brock swinging his head to align with his torso and his lips kissing the toned skin still covered by his aqua man night shirt. Brock, then, gently reaches below and trails his thick callous fingers around his pelvis bones, giving the little hairs before his pubic mound butterfly kisses.  
  
Inch by inch, his lips run over skin until they graze the elastic of Hank’s green shorts. He’s imagining Brock taking each of his thighs into consideration as he widens the space between them, testing his limberness. Hank tilts his head backwards, running his hands underneath his pillow in an attempt to calm him down. But, Brock is open mouth kissing his now aroused manhood and he’s so close to evaporating into a pure state of nothing, that the premise just scares him.  
  
Hank runs his hands down his toned stomach, almost as if to meet Brock halfway. He fingers his awkwardness through his green shorts, imagining – no – believing it’s actually Brock straddled between his trembling hips as he builds up a release. He’s completely lost within his memories, specifically of Brock in his entire splendor. In all of his golden glory. What would Brock even say if he knew Hank was jerking it to him? What would Brock even say if he knew the boy Venture he spent the majority of his life protecting, teaching and caring for was in a helpless spiral of crippling love for him? What would Brock even do?  
  
Hank doesn’t know or, he supposes, he doesn’t really care.  
  
For now, he’s living a fantasy where he’s content. A fantasy where everything is ok, where everything was beautiful and nothing hurt. He’s happy and Brock is there; watching, waiting with his arms wide enough for Hank to slither on through for an embrace.

He places his palm directly over his erection, patting it down as he reaches the end of himself. He grits his teeth and rolls his eyes upward to stare aimlessly at the bed post in search of some kind of clarity. But, of course, there isn’t any. There is only him, sprawled on this bed with disheveled sheets tied around his ankles and a damp spot centered on his shorts.

The volume of his dad’s voice rises as reality sets in, the egocentric whining growing and wharfing away Brocks image straddled between his thighs. His eyes shoot downward, the shame and alienation washing over him instantaneously that he couldn’t even help himself when the tears actually came. These tears, globby by nature, flowed easily to the sound of his father arguing just outside of his door. His father going on and on with a worldly vocabulary, taking any opposing person down a few notches simply by speaking.

And if he were to leave the confinement of his empty bedroom, he half-expected to see Brock leaning against the wall adjacent to his father, rolling his eyes to every command stuttered. He will expect Brock to make snide comments, prude jokes and maybe throw in jabs at his father’s expense. Brocks eyes will lift and meet with a still groggy hank. Smiles will be exchanged. And it'll be like it’s always been. Like nothing has changed.

He would be 16 again. Dean will still claim half of what was now Hanks bedroom and even the acknowledgement of all the excessive violence, blood and the mass graveyard making up the majority of his backyard would keep him innocent still.

He would wake up every morning, drag his still drowsy body out of bed and head to the kitchen expecting to reenter the warmth. They will be waiting for him so they could start their breakfast; Brock with his mug filled to the brim with coffee as black as the Arizonian night and both his father and Dean bickering to one side about nothing that would ever interest him. He would claim his chair near Brock, expecting sincerity to replace what his father never gave him. Expecting hearty laughs that deepened the lines etched on his face.

Only then he would expect to maybe smile naturally. To be happy once again.


End file.
